


Death of many

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Clan Lavellan - Freeform, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 23:22:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29375616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Sir Lavellan…”A faint smile touched Hanin’s lips, and he glanced over his shoulder.“Lady Montilyet.” he greeted simply, turning to face her, sweat still fresh upon his brow. He was breathing heavier than usual, but given he had been out there for close to two hours, he felt no shame in it.Josephine stood just to the side of the row of training dummies, those blue-grey eyes fixed on him with a kind of… sadness. Was it sadness?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 3





	Death of many

The training dummy buckled, and the sound of wood splintering was like music to Hanin’s ears as he brought down his greatsword in a mighty arc, the natural resistance giving way explosively. Muscles burning, but definitely in a good way, he stepped back to momentarily admire his handiwork. The dummy that had in some way resembled a human torso now looked more like a strange bundle of firewood, mingled with a hessian sack. Hanin, exhaling sharply, lifted his arm, testing the weight of his blade in his hand, rotating it for inspection. _Not even a scratch._ Just the way he liked it.

“Sir Lavellan…”

A faint smile touched Hanin’s lips, and he glanced over his shoulder.

“Lady Montilyet.” he greeted simply, turning to face her, sweat still fresh upon his brow. He was breathing heavier than usual, but given he had been out there for close to two hours, he felt no shame in it.

Josephine stood just to the side of the row of training dummies, those blue-grey eyes fixed on him with a kind of… sadness. _Was it sadness?_ Her hands were in front of her, clasped tightly, her usual folder and paper nowhere to be seen. Even her face seemed different somehow. Any faint lines were accentuated, but by what Hanin did not know. It was as though she had not slept, although he could not see why that would be the case.

Hanin frowned, and in one sharp movement, he stabbed the tip of his blade into the earth, leaving it wedged there as he breached the distance between him and the ambassador in a few sure strides.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, and almost winced at the harshness of his tone as Josephine raised her chin slightly to look at him. There was a stillness about her that was born from more than just courtly poise. After all, Hanin had watched her handle many nobles and diplomats. She had _never_ looked like this.

“I… think it would be best if…” her voice wavered a touch, and she swallowed, taking a brief pause to inhale slowly through her nose. “… If you sat down. If you were… more comfortable.”

There was something. _Something new_. A heaviness in Hanin’s gut that he couldn’t seem to force away. A somewhat breathless smirk flickered upon his face as he took a step back to regard her more fully.

“I’m never more comfortable than when I’m here.” he declared, masking his concerns with a matter-of-fact comment as he nodded towards his blade and the training equipment. “Now, tell me what’s happened.”

 _Whatever it is,_ he reasoned to himself as the ambassador shifted from foot to foot, _they could find a way to fix it._

Josephine hesitated, before nodding stiffly, her jaw set and her mouth drawn into a tight line.

“Very well. You… recall a message we received a few weeks ago? From y… your clan?”

Hanin tilted his head back slightly, his brows pulling tightly downwards. “ _Yes_. The one about the bandits…” he trailed off, his expression slackening for a moment as a growing dread began to claw up the back of his throat. He swallowed stiffly. “Josephine. _What happened_.”

Opening and closing her mouth, not quite finding her voice as Hanin’s rose almost accusingly, Josephine took a shaky step away, attempting to mask the movement by looking down at the ground near her feet. When she returned her attention to Hanin, he could see her lips were trembling slightly.

“I… There was an attack.” she whispered, closing her eyes as she spoke the words. Hanin froze for a moment, then scoffed almost derisively, running one rough hand over the lower half of his face, lingering at his mouth for a moment as he tried to process the news. Josephine didn’t speak – didn’t try to explain. He was grateful for that. He turned away for a moment, his mind reeling.

His clan. The clan he’d left. The people and home he had sworn to protect, and _left_. They had been attacked. He should have been there! It was his _duty_! Riven and Varlen were fine; _safe_. He had toyed with the idea of returning when the first letter came, but had dismissed it on account of numbers. There were more than enough warriors and hunters back in Wycome, and only Riven, Varlen, and himself at Skyhold. Strategically, it made _sense_ for him to stay here. That is what he had told himself. The _bullshit excuse_ he had used.

But now…

He lowered his hand slowly from his mouth, clenching it tightly by his side in a futile attempt to stop the shaking. To pretend it wasn’t there.

“How many were injured. Give me numbers.” The words were rough, grating off his tongue like sandpaper. He barked it like an order, and Josephine stiffened slightly. He… He knew this was not how he should speak to her. She didn’t deserve it. But he had _nothing left_. He was falling back on the only thing he knew, even if it pushed her further away. A life that gave order and structure and…

“Hanin…” Josephine’s voice was so soft – _why was it always so damn soft?_ He wheeled around to look at her, green eyes blazing, but kept his distance. He did not need to approach to be heard.

“Tell me. **Now**.”

She wet her lips, and for once, those searching eyes slipped away from his. It was… like she couldn’t even look at him. A long, slow sigh escaped from between Hanin’s lips, and he reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, the gesture half born from frustration, and half born from fear. He could already tell he wouldn’t like the answer.

“… That bad, then.” he shifted from pinching his nose bridge to rubbing his eyes with his fingertips. The way the Keeper used to when the youngsters would sneak out to explore after dark, and Hanin would haul them back by the collars of their shirts. The pressure, the darkness… it was meant to soothe, wasn’t it? _Then why wasn’t…_

He was vaguely aware of the soft sound of leaves crunching underfoot, but before he could open his eyes to acknowledge it, there was a warm hand on his shoulder. Soft. Tender. _Kind_.

He opened his eyes. Stared straight into Josephine’s; grey and beautiful and welling with tears.

“F-From the correspondence - a letter from the Duke of Wycome… it was…” she trailed off, tightening her grip just enough to reassure him of her presence, before letting it slacken again. Her thumb rubbed soothing circles on his skin.

“… _Bad_.” Hanin finished for her, shaking his head before turning it to the side, his eyes focusing in on the stone side wall of the Herald’s Rest. He couldn’t seem to stop the tremors running up his arms, despite the intensity with which he clenched his traitorous hands. “ _Fenedhis_. I never should have left. _I should have gone back.”_

“No, Hanin, please.” Josephine stepped around him, placing herself directly in his line of sight when he refused to look at her. “Promise me you will not blame yourself for this, I beg of you. You… You could not have known this would happen. We are doing what we can; we have sent soldiers to search the area for survivors. Their first report should be due some ti… _m…e…_ ”

Josephine’s voice faded out. Drifted away, like a memory from childhood evoked by a familiar scent, then gone just as fast. A rushing sound welled up suddenly. It filled Hanin’s ears, reminding him of the blacksmith’s bellows, swelling and ebbing with each mighty pump. Each burning heave. But the roar in Hanin’s ears was less steady. It rattled. Wavered. Hitched. It would produce uneven heat… an uneven blade. It… was useless… hopeless… _pitiful._..

With a foggy sense of realisation, Hanin slowly worked out that the sound was his own breathing. That his head was home to nothing but that growing roar, and the deep thrum of his heartbeat. His gaze moved. Saw but did not _see_. Josephine. _So beautiful_. Her reddened eyes were brimming with concern. Her hands were on his shoulders, but he couldn’t _feel_ them.

Why couldn’t he feel them?

* * *

_Soft hands on his shoulders, warm and encouraging. “You’ll be fine.” Ellara said, as he took a shaky breath and gave her what he hoped was a convincing smile. She returned the expression with genuine kindness, those familiar lines around her eyes crinkling. “Once your trial is over, you will be a protector of this clan, just like your parents. They would be so proud of you, Hanin.”_

_He nodded slowly. “I know.”_

_Ellara smiled and squeezed his shoulders again. Tighter. Too tight. Hanin’s expression melted into a frown, and he tried to pull away from her. She was saying his name. Just his name. Over and over and over and—_

* * *

“ _— Hanin!”_

It was as though he suddenly burst from the depths of a frozen lake, noise and colour and pain flooding his system hungrily, like starved lungs granted air. He reeled, and Josephine’s hands were dragged from his shoulders as he staggered back. Away. He was sweating. It felt like a fever, but he knew that was not possible. She was speaking again. Something… something about lying down. But Hanin shook his head and swallowed thickly. Clenched and unclenched his jaw. Tried to focus his vision. 

_We have sent soldiers to search the area for survivors…_

_… Survivors…_

_… Search…_

C-Creators; he had been afraid of _injuries_. Of hearing that the herbalist, Ivan, had taken an arrow to the shoulder, or that one of the healers had received a wound to their leg. 

But… but _this_ …

“ _Please_ , Hanin. You need to rest. I am… I am _so sorry_.” He was vaguely aware of the way Josephine’s voice hitched suddenly, choking on her own apology, and for some reason, anger swelled in his chest.

Sorry? She’s _sorry_? _How could she possibly…_

Hanin squeezed his eyes shut, turning away, breathing deeply.

 _In_ … out….

… **hold.**

 _In_ … out…

… **hold**.

Just like that. Just like how Ghilan had instructed him after their run-in with a werewolf what felt like a lifetime ago. He could hear the older elf’s voice, slow and calm and wise. Could picture Ghilan carrying him back to the clan, Hanin’s own hands pressed shakily to his stomach, trying to stop the bleeding as the world pitched, wavered, and swam in his vision. Remembered that familiar, reassuring smile. The one that said _you’ll be fine_. _Relax_. _We’re almost there…_

Now he was gone. Ghilan… Ellara… the healers… the hunters, the warriors, the scouts. The Keeper. The children. His parents…

 _… His family_.

“Go.” even to Hanin, the order sounded weak. Pitiful. If it had been directed at him, he doubted he would have followed it. Even Josephine hesitated, and there was a sharp inhalation on her part, shivering to between her lips. He swallowed dryly as somewhere behind him, she failed to stifle a sob. 

“ _Don’t_.” he said warningly through clenched teeth. “This is not your fault. Just… _go_.”

Hanin wasn’t sure if it was relief or agony to hear Josephine’s soft footsteps slowly receding. He eventually came to the conclusion that it was agony, and that Creators… _he deserved it._

The furious, heartbroken shout was on his lips before he even had time to realise it was coming. He wheeled around; swung blindly at the training dummy. His fists collided with the wooden structure and it cracked beneath the force of his grief. 

Again, and again. 

_Over and over._

The dummy buckled, shuddered, and wept silently. Begged for the pain to stop. For it all to go away. It wanted to fall to its knees and scream its fury to the sky. Even though it knew the gods were looking down and laughing at its pain. But it could do nothing. It was bound in place. By word, by deed – it didn’t matter. He had been created to go nowhere. To be trapped in place to be pummeled; worn away and ground to dust until there was nothing left of him. 

Hanin cried out, his broken knuckles once again finding their mark. A piece of wood splintered with a crack, catching Hanin’s fist on the following punch. The dummy struck back – stabbed straight through his skin. Slid beneath its surface, grated against the bone, and then withdrew, its jagged edges tearing like a barbed blade on the way out. Crimson flowed freely; fell in heavy droplets to the dirt. Stained it with a bloom of red. Hanin stepped back. Shaky. Heaving. His saliva was ash in his mouth.

His blade was still embedded in the earth. It rose from it jarringly. A tombstone of gold and bitter edges.

Hanin didn’t really remember how he got there. To the narrow alley between the wall and the tavern. He didn’t remember placing his back against the cold stone. almost relishing they way it burned against his skin. Didn’t remember sliding down it rough surface, cradling his hand to his chest, the metallic scent of blood familiar and sickening as he breathed it in and closed his eyes in the darkness…

 _In…_ out…

… **hold.**

 _In…_ out…

… **h-hold.**

_I-In… o-out…_

_…_ **h** … **hol** … ****

It didn’t work. _Wouldn’t work._ Instead, Hanin’s lips formed words, but his mind was not aware of them. His ears heard them, but did not comprehend. They flowed like a mantra, only empty of meaning. _Of purpose_. They changed nothing, but he said them anyway. Over and over. He let them flow, each verse living and dying on his breath until he somehow found the strength to stand. He continued to mouth them as dragged himself across the courtyard and retrieved his blade. Let them melt into his thoughts as he headed towards the Great Hall, each heavy step like a mountain to endure.

Let them die as he reached his destination, and his voice asked after his clan mates. His _only_ clan-mates. 

The Inquisitor and her brother. 

Riven and Varlen, of clan Lavellan.

* * *

_“Hahren na melana sahlin_

_emma ir abelas_

_souver'inan isala hamin_

_vhenan him dor'felas_

_in uthenera na revas_

_vir sulahn'nehn_

_vir dirthera_

_vir samahl la numin_

_vir lath sa'vunin…_

_**“… H-Hahren na m-melana sahlin** _

_**emma ir a-abelas** _

_**s-souver'inan isala h… hamin…”** _


End file.
